


Like a Dream That You Can't Quite Place

by dreamlittleyo



Series: Hamilween [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Creepy Fluff, Ghost Hamilton, Ghosts, Haunted Houses, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-13 21:18:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16479935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: Washington buys a long-abandoned mansion, but the place may not be as empty as it seems.





	Like a Dream That You Can't Quite Place

The house isn't a ruin exactly, but "fixer-upper" might be too generous a word.

Old and enormous and located on the lonely outskirts of town, George can't explain why _this_ is the home calling to him. The property needs a hell of a lot of work—that much is evident even without stepping inside—but George puts in an offer anyway. There is something about the manor that feels _right_ , despite all the rotted floorboards and crumbling foundations and literal holes in the roof.

The house has been unoccupied for decades, perhaps even longer, but George has more than enough money to order the place torn apart and updated. His team of contractors works fast, and within a matter of months he is able to move in. One entire wing has been rendered habitable, while the rest remains underway.

The ongoing project means strangers coming and going from the property almost every day, but George doesn't mind. His own work keeps him busy elsewhere, and even when he's home early enough to interrupt the construction, the noise doesn't bother him.

When everyone leaves, the grounds are quiet and peaceful and _his_.

On his very first night in his ruin-in-progress, George dreams an unfamiliar face. A handsome young man wearing simple clothing—white shirt and dark pants that don't look exactly modern though George can't place them—dark hair tied back in a tight queue and a spark of curiosity in narrowed eyes.

The young man keeps his distance and says, "You shouldn't be here."

George realizes they're standing in his own still-decrepit main foyer, and somehow it seems perfectly natural to ask, "Why? Is it dangerous?"

The question gives the young stranger pause. "No. But _I'm_ here."

"Well, now I'm here too. I hope that's okay."

George wakes with a prickle along his spine, but the dream was a pleasant one, and he gets out of bed untroubled.

He dreams about the young man again. And again. Every night a variation on the same, though the location inside the manor changes. George is inexplicably confident that if he got himself a hotel room in town, there would be no sign of the face that's become so quickly familiar. He stays where he is, no desire to be elsewhere or stop seeing his unexpected guest.

The young man loses his wariness and comes closer after a time. He _talks_ to George—turns out he's a hell of a talker—and his name is Alexander. He is smart and stubborn, and unexpectedly kind. Perfect, in his strange and imaginary way. It's ridiculous how much George wishes Alexander were real, and how much he's come to look forward to _sleep_ because there is always enjoyable company waiting for him.

When Alexander kisses him, George harbors no second thoughts. This is his dream. Why shouldn't he kiss Alexander back? Why shouldn't he touch him, and hold him, and tug away the oddly timeless clothing to reach all that lovely bare skin beneath? Alexander is eager heat against him—beneath him—and George wakes the next morning thrumming with energy, giddy and sated and warm. His bed is empty, but somehow it doesn't feel that way.

Alexander is most definitely _not_ of this era. His clothing may be indistinct, but his manners are dated. His knowledge has consistent holes, mostly centering around modern technology. He's never seen a movie, has no concept of recorded music, and talks about the stage as though the theater is the height of popular entertainment.

He used to read voraciously.

"Used to?" George presses when he learns this fact.

Alexander shrugs. "There are no books here now."

George has no rational explanation for why, the very next day, he scraps his plans for one of the second-floor galleries and instructs the contractor to build a library instead. Even more ridiculous, that night George asks Alexander what books to put on the shelves.

The delight that startles across Alexander's face is worth it.

They're wrapped in each other's arms a week later, both naked and satisfied, when Alexander admits in a small voice, "I think I died here." The dream version of George's bedroom is nearly identical to its state in the waking world, same bed and windows and sturdy desk, but there are more drapes and decorations here.

"In this room?" George frowns at the idea.

"No. Somewhere in the house."

"How?"

"I honestly don't know." He snuggles closer against George's chest. "It was such a long time ago."

Weeks pass. More of the house comes together. It begins to feel like a home rather than a poor impulse given form. George continues to dream, and his dreams remain pleasant, if improbable.

When Alexander appears during daylight in the newly completed library, George is awake. He knows he is awake. He's just signed a round of agonizingly dull paperwork on behalf of the contractor, who still has more than half the house to finish renovating. He is well-rested and dressed for a day off, and his surroundings hold none of the blurry strangeness of a dream.

George looks Alexander in the eye and asks the only possible question. "Am I losing my mind?"

"Seeing ghosts is only a symptom of insanity if the ghosts aren't real." Alexander is smiling, and with more a flicker of light than a forward step he is abruptly standing directly in front of George.

"How is this possible?"

"I don't know," Alexander admits. "I think… Maybe _you_ did it. Willed it somehow. People can't normally see me like this."

"Can I touch you?"

"I don't know that either." Uncertainty tinges Alexander's voice, but he doesn't shy from George's hand. When their fingers brush, Alexander's skin is ice cold but solid.

George grins, and Alexander offers a cautious smile in return.

"Will you stay?" Alexander's question is fierce and earnest, and George's smile softens.

"Of course I'll stay."

When he tugs his boy close and kisses him, George finds he doesn't mind the chill one bit.


End file.
